Jitters
by Chess
Summary: Freddie's first time in Russia. Gen.


Fifteen, his managers had agreed, was for too young to be playing chess overseas, especially in Russia, especially _now_. However, Freddie made it a habit to never listen to anything they told him, and, if possible, to do exactly the opposite. Besides, he'd be damned if he was going to turn down the chance to play chess against some of the best guys in the world and kick some commie ass at the same time.

By the time he actually ended up in Russia, he'd managed to shake off most of his managers, either due to fucked up Russian security issues or because he was good at giving people the slip. He hadn't quite worked out how to get away from the KGB agent who'd been assigned to watch his every move like a hawk, though.

Freddie couldn't even leave his shitty hotel room without the guy freaking out, so he ended up just staying in there for hours on end, practicing his game and studying his opponents' moves.

On the third day, he finally got restless enough to cause trouble. He figured it was pretty impressive that he'd waited that long, given his usual track record. The KGB guy was standing in the middle of his room, all stiff suit and polished shoes and obvious gun in his jacket, and Freddie couldn't take it anymore.

"Hey," he said.

The KGB guy didn't even glance at him.

"_Hey_." Freddie kicked the bedside table, making it wobble sideways. Fucking Russia. He studied his shoes. There was a hole in the toe of the left one.

"Is there anything you need?" the agent asked in his thick accent.

"Yeah," Freddie said, flipping upside down and hanging his head off the bed. "Where can I get a cheeseburger around here, anyway?" Now that he thought about it, he actually really did want one. "Jesus," he added with feeling. "I'm fucking hungry."

"I am not your personal servant," the man said, his eyes going narrow.

"I'm surprised you know that word," Freddie said, watching the cracks in the ceiling. "You probably mostly have slaves around here. Isn't that right? Commie slaves?"

The man didn't even blink. "If there is anything you really need, Mr. Trumper, just let me know."

"Fuck," Freddie said, flipping over again to lie on his stomach, staring at the agent. "Okay."

He tried to go back to his game, but his focus was shot. Having some stupid giant Russian in the middle of his room didn't exactly help him get in the right mindset for—Wait a sec. He grinned.

"Hey."

The agent looked at him with annoyance this time. "Yes?"

"Want to play me?" Freddie held up a pawn. "C'mon, one game. Keep me in form."

The Russian sighed heavily. He probably didn't think he'd been paid enough for this gig, or maybe he hadn't been told that babysitting a kid like Freddie wasn't exactly going to be a cakewalk. "If I must."

"You must," Freddie said. He sat back on the bed, legs crossed. He liked the idea of playing on the bed, because then he could jiggle his leg all he wanted and upset his opponent. "You can be white." Why not give the guy an edge?

The agent cast Freddie a very resentful look and moved a pawn.

"You do play, right?" Freddie asked. Verbally goading an opponent wasn't something that went over well with most arbiters, so he'd take it where he could get it for now. When he got to the real match, he'd have to resort to causing as much of a fuss as he could in other ways.

"Many Russians play," the agent said, sounding disgusted.

"Oh, right." Freddie was just letting his mouth run on automatic now, as he studied the board. "Because there's nothing else to do in this God-forsaken country. Hey, do you guys even believe in God? Or, like, real God?"

The agent frowned, glancing up from the board. "I would rather not discuss this with you, Mr. Trumper."

Freddie wondered absently who told the guy to call him _mister_ and why he was doing that with his knight. This was pretty cool, all things considered. He was getting treated like a real fucking adult, even if he wasn't acting like one. About time he finally got what he deserved for being the best. Maybe after beating all of Russia at chess, people would realize how far above anyone else he really was.

He moved almost without thinking, only he never really moved without thinking. When he was playing, he always felt like his brain was split up, half for the game and half for everything else that was always going on in his head, the tics and distractions and color of his opponent's shirt.

The agent moved, frowning. Ha, he was already thrown by Freddie's game, or maybe by the God shit. Freddie moved again almost immediately, taking the guy's pawn.

The agent stood, jostling the board a little. "I think that is enough of this. I have a job."

Freddie snorted. "What, scared already?" There wasn't much he hated more than someone wussing out on a game, except Russia.

The agent turned away. "This is not in my job description. Any of this."

Freddie picked up his king and thought about throwing it at the wall. Actually thinking before doing something like that was rare, so he decided against it. Maybe he'd get points for being a responsible adult. "Yeah, great. That's why you're stuck here in fucking Russia and I'm travelling the world playing chess."

The agent didn't even make a face at that one. Great, a fucking stoic.

"I'm going out," Freddie said abruptly, rolling off the bed. "Thanks for nothing, asshole."

He didn't even make it halfway to the door before the agent was blocking his way, being huge and impressive and all that shit it he'd probably had years of training for. He grabbed Freddie's arm.

"Hey," Freddie said, trying to twist away, "Lemme go. I'm just going out, I _said_."

"I think not, Trumper," the agent said. "I am meant to keep you in this room until the tournament. I have been informed of your . . . tendencies."

So okay, maybe Freddie tended to fuck around and yell and throw stuff and break the rules a little, but he really hated people shoving him around. "Let the fuck go of me," he said, starting to fight even more violently. "I'm not fucking around, just fucking let go—"

After another overlong second, the agent released him, smirking a little. "I apologize. Mr Trumper. But I am going to have to ask you to remain in the room. We do want a fair match, after all."

Freddie twitched away, backing against the bed. "No, yeah, that's fucking great. Great." He shoved the board aside, angry enough to ruin his setup. It wasn't like it mattered now, anyway. The jackass commie wasn't going to play him, and now he was stuck in a damn room with the guy for the next however long.

That was okay. He could still study the game under shitty conditions.

He spent the next two hours moving all the furniture in the room against one wall, muttering chess coordinates under his breath, and shooting the agent occasional remarks along the lines of, "Hey, not against the rules, right?"

Finally, exhausted, he threw himself on the bed, toppling the remaining upright pieces from the long-abandoned game. A pawn poked him between the shoulder blades and he felt a hell of a lot better.

"I am afraid I cannot see the point of your moving the furniture," the agent said stiffly, checking his watch.

Freddie grinned. "I don't know. Just felt like it. It helps my concentration." Not a lie, actually. Pissing people off and doing stuff with his hands helped more than most shit.

The agent moved toward the door. "Very well. I believe I may leave you know. You must need your rest for the game tomorrow." He turned and left without waiting for a response.

Freddie wiggled until the pieces weren't jabbing him anywhere, still grinning like an idiot. He finally had a good feeling about the match tomorrow, whatever bullshit the Russians tried to pull on him. Actually, they probably had cameras on him right now, come to think of it. He edged over onto one corner of the bed, hopefully away from any prying commie eyes.

By the time he actually got to sleep, it was two in the morning and there was a bishop caught between his toes, but he was calm enough that he figured he had a shot tomorrow.


End file.
